


Runaway

by Fairleigh



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Accidental Use of the Force, Gen, Tatooine (Star Wars), Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-12 20:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17474393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/pseuds/Fairleigh
Summary: Shmi Skywalker befriends a boy who has run away from home.





	Runaway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [primeideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/gifts).



The first time she saw the boy …

… the day was still new. The second of Tatooine’s twins suns had not yet risen, and the chill of the desert night lingered in purple shadows.

Shmi Skywalker had come to the slave quarters’ communal well to collect her weekly water ration. The boy was already there when she arrived, and he gazed longingly at the primitive manual pump, at the tarnished bronzium faucets, at the morning regulars carrying their worn plastisteel canisters with them.

He was young, twelve or thirteen years old at most. And he was a traveler — that much was evident from the dust of the road clinging to his modest clothing and the rucksack he carried over one shoulder — and he did not appear to be accompanied. She didn’t quite recognize his style of dress, which was odd. Actually, a lot of things about the boy were … _felt_ … odd. Shmi wondered if perhaps he was a runaway.

If so, he wasn’t from Mos Espa, or he would know not to waste his time at a well where only authorized persons were allowed their miserly drink. Ignorance of this sort could be dangerous in the city. The expression on his face was fiercely determined, though, and the expression was one Shmi knew very well from her own son. Therefore, she also knew that it was only a matter of time before the boy would work up the courage to challenge someone for their water.

Which would likely end badly for someone. Probably for the boy.

“Give me your canteen,” Shmi said to the boy.

The boy startled at her abrupt words and did not reply. His eyes were wary.

“I’ll fill it for you. You _do_ have a canteen, don’t you?” Surely the boy wasn’t _that_ foolish.

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” The boy fished a small canteen from his rucksack and handed it over.

It was empty. Figured. Shmi filled it with a portion of her own water ration and handed it back to the boy. He drank immediately — big, thirsty gulps.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the boy said once he’d had his fill. Someone had taught him good manners, at least. She might have inquired further, curiosity piqued, but she was going to be late for work.

“Find shelter,” Shmi advised. “It will be hot today.”

She didn’t bother lingering to determine whether or not the boy was listening to her.

~*~*~

The second time she saw the boy …

… she was returning home after a long and frustrating shift at Watto’s shop.

Business had fallen off for Watto in a very big way after he’d lost Anakin to the Jedi, and so, paradoxically, Shmi labored more than twice as hard to serve less than half the customers.

But she could only do what she could do, and it didn’t matter how loudly Watto yelled at her or how creatively he insulted her. The droid’s motivator, the landspeeder’s repulsorlift ignition, the vaporator’s condenser unit — none of these things had been fixed today, and Shmi feared, in fact, that they were forever beyond her ability to fix. If that were true, where would _she_ be in a week or a month? What use was a slave who wasn’t useful? What would happen to her if —

If he hadn’t emitted a soft, agonized moan as she passed, she probably would’ve missed seeing the boy at all.

He’d taken her advice, it seemed, and found shelter on a patch of ground under a shadowed eave. Unfortunately, he’d had to fight to defend it: one of his eyes was swollen and discolored, and he was clutching his chest like it pained him. His rucksack and canteen appeared to have been stolen. Any credits he had would’ve been stolen too. He was lucky they hadn’t stolen his boots.

They didn’t talk; they didn’t need to. Silently, Shmi helped the boy up onto his feet and half-escorted, half-carried him home with her.

Why did she do it? Why didn’t she just mind her own business? She didn’t really know herself. Maybe it was because this was what Anakin would’ve done for a stranger in need. Maybe it was because the boy kind of reminded her of Anakin. Maybe it was because the boy just felt … special. Like Anakin.

Once home, she fed the boy and tended to his injuries. She also offered him Anakin’s old bed for the night, and he took it gratefully. He looked curiously at Threepio, powered down and propped up nearby. She hadn’t used him — hadn’t _wanted_ to use him — in ages.

“I’m Shmi. What’s your name?” she asked, redirecting the boy’s attention to forestall inevitable inquiries about the droid.

“Luke,” the boy said. He hesitated, like he wanted to say more then thought better of it. Shmi didn’t pry.

“You can’t stay here forever, you know. Do you have a home and a family to return to?”

Luke didn’t reply.

~*~*~

The last time she saw the boy …

… he was on the salt flats outside Anchorhead, disappearing over a horizon blazing with the fiery colors of sunset. He’d run ahead to announce their arrival.

Running _toward_ home, not away from it.

Luke had indeed run away from home; she’d been right about that. Convincing him to return home to his family had taken a week, while his injuries healed, but in the end, he’d agreed. Shmi had a sneaking suspicion that his agreement had far less to do with her sublime powers of persuasion, and more to do with Luke’s recognition of the obvious pain she felt with Anakin’s absence.

“My Dad was a navigator on a spice freighter,” Luke had told her. “I wanna be a pilot too, but my uncle won’t let me. He says I need to stay to help with the farm. I’ll be stuck on this stupid dust ball forever!”

“Anakin was like you. He couldn’t wait to get far, far away from here,” Shmi had explained, “but when he learned that he had to go alone, that I couldn’t come with him, he didn’t want to go anymore. He wouldn’t have gone, I don’t think, if I hadn’t told him he had to. Still, there isn’t a day that passes that I don’t miss him. I’m sure he feels the same. Are you ready to leave you family behind to pursue your dream?”

Luke had looked thoughtful. When he’d spoken again, it hadn’t been in answer to her question. Not straightforwardly, anyway. “Hey, my father’s name was Anakin, and _his_ mother’s name was Shmi. Um, I think. Um. Yeah … it’s almost like _we’re_ family! What do you think? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Although Luke had refused to tell her his surname, he’d volunteered intimate bits of his history like that almost constantly. The irony was not lost on Shmi.

“I think that would be lovely,” she had said simply.

She hadn’t asked Watto for permission to escort Luke home; she hadn’t notified him of her journey in advance. He could be angry later. She’d deal with it somehow.

Now, as she approached the domed entrance to the Lars farmhouse, a man appeared. He was aging but still strong, and his face was kind.

“Where did Luke go?” she asked.

“Eh? There’s no Luke here,” the man said. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

“I … but, I …” Shmi was at a loss. She didn’t understand what it meant — that this, all this, was _meant_. Not until much later, at any rate.

The man evidently mistook her confusion for heatstroke. “I’m Cliegg Lars. Why don’t you come inside and rest awhile, ma’am? I’ll give you a drink of water.”


End file.
